Life After Mimi
by BethHayes
Summary: Roger's having a difficult time adjusting to life without the feline of Avenue B. Mark is doing all he can to help the songwriter through. It'll take a little more than a few fights and AIDS to keep him from leaving his best friend to deal with all the troubles in his life alone. So, he sticks around... For a while. First story! Feedback is appreciated!


He could only sleep half hours at a time. They were fitful and he'd usually open his eyes to the thought of Mimi, willing himself not to cry as Mark came in to check on him. Roger began to stop caring because Mark had seen him at his worst too many times. These times shouldn't be any different. He didn't know what to think of Mark's concerned gaze as he lies around and barely moves. Barely eats. Barely breathes. Barely speaks. Only thinks and reminisces day after day. They've been through this once together. When Roger sat, lonely, on the couch some days, if he stared at Mark long enough, the man would eventually sigh and pull Roger into his lap, wrapping his arms loosely around the man's waist. The gentle rocking Mark provided and his subtle scent of cologne lulled them both into a content sleep. However, as usual, Roger woke up to a piercing memory; screaming in color. He would shake and try to escape Mark's side but he couldn't. He felt trapped next to his best friend, felt like invisible walls were closing in around him. Mark would wake eventually and repeat the healing process same as yesterday. Roger would wipe at his eyes furiously, devastated he couldn't move on. Mark would rub his back, force some food and his first AZT pill in weeks down his throat, then leave him be when he became too cranky for his own good.

One day, Roger woke up. However, he couldn't feel anything. His brain couldn't think. His hands couldn't feel. He couldn't open his eyes to so much as blink. He couldn't distinguish the thumping of his heart in his chest. What was going on? He felt a presence looming over him: a dark, heavy shadow. He barely felt his lips move but he knew he mouthed a name. Who's name? He couldn't tell you. The shadow rested a cold hand against his cheek and, finally, Roger stirred uncomfortably to open his eyes.

Mark. It was Mark. He never became tired of looking into those beautiful, icy blue orbs.

Roger opened his mouth but choked on some spit and began to cough.

"What is it, Roger?" Mark asked, hurriedly.

"I-I-um... Think I'm fading with her memory," Roger replied, truthfully. Mark laughed meekly.

"I hope that's just the name of a new non-existent song you're writing."

"No."

"Roger—" Mark was unsure how to respond to the man's abrupt statement. How do you tell someone they only think they're dying because the one they love isn't here anymore? How do you convince them to move on? How do you convince Roger to move on? He's still sore about April; who knows how long it will take to move past Mimi. "Hey," Mark whispered, crawling off of his best friend's bed. "Get dressed and I'll make you some breakfast, okay? We could go for a walk today or to the Life if you want."

Roger lied as still as a log, making Mark sigh and leave the room.

Minutes later, still pajama-clad Roger Davis emerged from his bedroom and seated himself at the makeshift kitchen countertop. Mark glanced at him briefly.

"At least I came out," Roger argued. Mark shrugged. He seemed tense as he continued to cook pancakes.

Roger was unsure as to why he was acting so strange. Speaking of strange, his head felt cloudy and his stomach clenched uncomfortably. Roger didn't remember drinking last night... As a matter of fact, he didn't remember anything from last night. 'Something happened...' his gut kept telling him. Why else would Mark have been lying next to him in bed when he woke this morning?

"Mark?" The man dared to speak up.

"Yeah, Rog?"

"Can I have some ibuprofen? I gotta headache."

Mark completely froze, nearly burning his hand on the hot pan and waited to reply. "It'll pass," He gave his roommate a worried glance.

"What happened last night?" Roger questioned after a few moments, horrified that he really fucked up bad this time.

Mark turned to him, looking at him skeptically, raising a brow in disbelief.

"You... Uh..." He cleared his throat to stall time. "You overdosed..."

"On what?" Roger inquired, dreading the answer.

Mark flipped the pancake in the pan before sliding it onto a plate. Passing it to Roger, he stood there with a pained, forced expression crossing his features.

"Everything we own in the cabinet..." Mark trailed off and shifted his gaze to stare at Roger.

Roger's world was crashing down all over again... He must've been having irrational thoughts about Mimi. He hated that he couldn't remember what they were about, though. Mark must've noticed his change in mood because he quickly reassured him it was only 1 Tylenol, 3 aspirin, 2 AZT pills and...

"Is that all?"

"8 ibuprofen."

Roger stared at his pancake, ashamed to look his best friend in the eyes. Suddenly, his green orbs glazed over with fresh tears.

"What's the date?" He asked, holding back a sob. Mark gulped.

"The twenty-second."

Roger shook his head, worsening his headache significantly. He'd been asleep for three days. Three days.

"Collins came by and helped me check your vitals every so often. We thought about sending you to the hospital because we didn't know what the hell we were doing... Your fever stuck around for a while which is what worried us the most..."

After a while, Roger blocked out Mark's banter and let himself escape into his own head. Mimi. Mimi. Mimi. Mimi. Mimi. Mimi. Mimi. Mimi. Mi—

"Roger?" Mark patted his friend's cheek, trying to get some attention. Mark's hand was warm with water. Wait... nope. Those were Roger's silent tears. Taking a shaky breath, Roger mustered the strength to stand. Mark. Mark. Mark. Mark. Mark. Mark. Mark. Mark. Ma—

"Rog? Do you wanna lie down?" Mark's fingers curled around his roommate's arm cautiously. Roger wasn't given the chance to answer. Being led back to his room, the man finally took in the sight of his best friend. It looked as if he'd been given two black eyes that were slowly on the mend. Scrawny, as usual. Etched into his expression, pain, hurt. Mark was exhausted. He probably

hadn't left Roger's side for the past three days straight.

Mark gently pushed him back into bed and left for a moment, returning with the breakfast seconds later. He gently placed the plate in his best friend's lap and pressed a fork into his palm.

"Do you wanna talk?" Despite Roger still barely grasping the fact he overdosed, he slowly nodded. Mark sat on Roger's bed and drummed his fingers on his leg, unsure of what to say. Roger began to eat to avoid Mark's consistent threats to shove food down his throat. He hated when he did that.

'Small talk would work', Mark thought after a few minutes.

"Maureen's holding another protest tonight. It's about... I think animal rights or something."

Roger decided to play along. "Is she gonna wear her cat outfit from New Years?" He chided.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Mark snickered. "Joanne's away on business in Harlem this weekend and Collins is working on his theory at NYU. He finally convinced..."

As Mark continued to talk, Roger began to think.

"Mark?" He interrupted after a while. Turns out the filmmaker had nearly fallen asleep sitting up.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you avoiding talking about what I did?"

"I figured I'd say something when you brought it up. I don't want to force anything out of you as to why you did it; I've got an idea."

"Mark, I miss her with everything I am and it's killing me to know she'll never be back."

"I know, Rog. But you have to try and cope, move on. Find comfort in the other people around you..." Roger sighed, irritated, and stared Mark straight in the eyes, raising his voice a bit to sound like he had the upper hand in the conversation.

"I have! But you've never experienced a loss like this, Mark. Why are you always the one giving me advice if you don't know how it really feels?"

That did it. Mark's cheeks turned bright red. If he wasn't I the current situation, one might've assumed he was blushing. He was angry. Shooting up off of the bedside like a rocket, he opened his mouth and the past several years of bottled up emotions came spilling out in the most forceful tone Roger has ever known the man to use even to this day.

"ROGER, I'VE NEVER EXPERIENCED A LOSS LIKE THIS? TRY HELPING YOUR BEST FRIEND THROUGH A HEROINE WITHDRAWAL, WATCHING HIM OVERDOSE ON PILLS, AND THROW HIS LIFE AWAY AS A MUSICIAN! TRY NOT TALKING TO YOUR FAMILY FOR THREE YEARS! TRY NOT EXPRESSING YOUR EMOTIONS FOR THE SAKE OF OTHERS! TRY HIDING BEHIND A CAMERA TO SPARE SOMEONE ELSE'S FEELINGS! TRY GOING MONTHS WITHOUT SOMEONE TO KISS AND TALK WITH! TAKE TWO SECONDS TO REALIZE I'VE PRACTICALLY DEDICATED HALF OF MY LIFE TO SAVING YOUR ASS! YOU KNOW, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT WAS LIKE WHEN YOU DISAPPEARED TO SANTA FE. IN FACT, EVER SINCE THE DAY YOU LEFT, YOU'VE BEEN DEAD TO ME. EVEN THE PAST FEW WEEKS I COULD BE STANDING IN THE KITCHEN, STARING YOU STRAIGHT IN THE FACE AND FEEL LIKE THE LONELIEST PERSON IN THE WORLD! YOU—" Mark finally took a deep breath to stifle a threatening sob. "AS ALWAYS... YOU, ROGER DAVIS, WERE RIGHT. I HAVEN'T EXPERIENCED A LOSS LIKE THIS. BECAUSE YOU'RE CLEARLY THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS, YOU CAN DEAL WITH IT ON YOUR OWN!" With that, Mark stormed out of his roommate's room, slamming the door behind him furiously. He walked across the hall to his own bedroom and locked the door. The rocker was lying stunned in bed; the filmmaker had slid down the wall and buried his face in his hands, crying for all he was worth.

It was an eerily quiet night; the streets even seemed to be at a standstill. The city that never sleeps had no blaring sirens or shouting people. There were, however, two restless people in an Avenue A loft.

Mark was slouching on the couch, arms crossed, deep in thought. It must've been about two in the morning and the only source of light creeping through the window was a street lamp across the way. Neither he nor Roger was tired; they'd locked themselves away in different rooms of the loft to avoid confrontation. That is, until Roger was heard hiccuping through tears in his room by a scowling Mark. A minute passed. 10 minutes passed. He finally stood up and, walking silently to the rocker's door, cracked it open to check his friend was still asleep. He was curled up, as if he was trying to conserve energy and heat. Mark, satisfied, went to close the door but stopped himself.

"Rog," the filmmaker attempted to shake the rocker awake. The contact made him wail. Mark withdrew his hand from Roger's shoulder and sat on the edge of his bed. One... Two...

"MARK!" The man shot up (no pun intended) in bed, supported by his unsteady hands.

"Right here."

"Okay... Why?"

"You'll see." Roger kept panting, overworking himself unintentionally. Minutes later, he became awfully pale. The songwriter escaped to the bathroom and the filmmaker went to fill up a glass of water. Mark met Roger hunched over the porcelain bowl, emptying the morning— technically afternoon's pancakes. His forehead was slick with sweat and his body glistened under the dim lightbulb above him. Mark stood in the doorway before setting the glass down on the sink and kneeling next to his retching best friend. Roger heaved his whole self forward and spit whatever he could into the toilet. Mark hadn't touched him, knowing he would only make it worse.

Roger finally stopped. He crawled to lean against the bathtub. Saliva was steadily dripping down his chin. Mark fetched a cold washcloth and wiped Roger's face clean. Tilting his best friend's head back, Mark poured of bit of water down his throat. Roger seemed too out of it to protest. They lied there for a while before Roger began to fall asleep on the bathroom floor.

"Wake up, Rog. Let's get back to bed," Mark prompted, almost impatiently. Roger grunted and pulled himself up off the floor, nearly collapsing in the process. Mark snuck his hand around his waist to hold him upright.

Roger was jostled out of his once dreamless sleep by a reoccurring nightmare. However, he can never recall what it's about when he wakes. Deciding he'd slept long enough, he made his way to the living room. His hair was disheveled so he ran his fingers through it with a sigh.

"Mornin'..." The ex-junkie greeted an empty loft.


End file.
